


Frankie Say Relax

by 4badmice



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Background Relationships, Eames is great, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Secret mutual pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:19:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9092968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4badmice/pseuds/4badmice
Summary: An injured Arthur turns to Eames for help. Which in any regard is only the beginning.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Inception. The title is borrowed from Frankie Goes to Hollywood.
> 
> Here's another story of the "Eames to the rescue" variety, I just love these. Enjoy!

 

It's the dead of night and Eames hasn't been sleeping yet when his doorbell rings. Frowning, he sits up on the sofa, putting his totem with which he's been playing into his pocket while he gets to his feet. He doesn't usually have visitors, especially not at this hour, therefore Eames makes a detour to the kitchen to get his gun before he goes out into the small hall.

It's Arthur, whom Eames hasn't spoken to in months and whom he believed to currently be in Paris. The relief about the fact that it's him and not some thug with a view to maim or kill doesn't last long. The Point Man looks dreadful in the dim neon light of the hall, and from the way he hunches in on himself, sporting dried blood on one side of his face and cradling his left arm against his body, Eames knows better than to dawdle on the doorstep and ask unnecessary questions such as _What are you doing here?_ or _Are you okay?_ because clearly, Arthur isn't, and he wouldn't be here if he were. Which gives Eames a small pang, but he doesn't heed it. He simple pushes the door open further: “Come in.”

He didn't mean for Arthur to fall over the threshold, but he stumbles after just one step, all but crashing into Eames. Who quickly brings his arms up around the other and catches him, eliciting a small gasp of pain.

“Sorry, darling,” Eames mutters, doing his best to keep Arthur on his feet. He is shaking like a leaf and seems barely conscious now, but with a lot of shuffling (and cursing on Eames' part) they manage to negotiate the way into Eames' bedroom, where Eames turns on the light with an elbow, then sits both of them down on the mattress; as long as he doesn't know what exactly's wrong with Arthur, keeping him in an upright position seems a good idea. But Arthur's eyes are closed by now and his skin's got a greyish tone. Eames has already seen that there's partially dried blood in his hair as well, it has run down his neck and stained his shirt. Oddly enough, he doesn't wear a coat, not even a jacket even though it's November and rather cold outside, but he had a messenger bag with him, which they dropped along the way. He feels rather clammy too. His arm is haphazardly wrapped into what turns out into a piece of his shirt and seems to have stopped bleeding.

“Right,” Eames says, “we'll get to the 'what happened' part later. Arthur, are you still with me?”

Arthur makes a feeble noise which from necessity Eames counts as a yes.

“Okay. Are there any other injuries apart from the head wound and your arm?”

It takes Arthur a moment until he can speak: “My back,” he rasps, sounding awfully weak. “Rest are... bruises.”

“Oh dear,” Eames murmurs. “Any bullets to contend with? Glass shards or other objects which might still be embedded?”

“No.”

“Are you seeing double or feeling nauseous?”

“Don't have... a concussion,” Arthur grinds out.

Eames isn't so sure about that, but it seems pointless to argue. He cranes his neck to look at the head wound, then makes a decision. He doesn't have any medical training, and it won't do Arthur any good if he doesn't get competent help.

“We'll better get you horizontal for the time being, then,” he says. Arthur gasps as Eames helps him shift further onto the mattress, and he is still trembling.

“Just one more question, love,” Eames says as he spreads a blanket over Arthur. “How did you get here?”

“Cab.”

“Had a lot of cash on you, then?” Paying people off is preferable to have them calling the authorities, after all.

“No. My watch. And had. Had him stop two blocks... down.”

Eames nods; Arthur's nothing if not thorough, even in the direst of circumstances.

“I'll be right back,” he then says and goes to find his phone.

When he returns to the bedroom five minutes later, Arthur has either lost his battle with consciousness or fallen asleep, and Eames, after he's gotten a bowl of water and a cloth and begun to cautiously clean the blood away, keeps checking whether his charge is still breathing. He's never seen Arthur like this and it's bloody unnerving not to know what happened to him.

He isn't yet done with his task when the doorbell rings. Arthur doesn't react to the sound, which is worrying, but on the other hand, he'll probably not be too thrilled about Eames bringing another person into this anyway.

 

“I hope you have a good reason for waking me at this ungodly hour,” Phil says grumpily. Apparently, people don't do proper greetings anymore.

“Did I ever call you in the middle of the night before?” Eames asks while leading the way to the bedroom. “And apart from that, you're my brother. I can call you whenever I want.”

“Sadly, yes,” Phil yawns. “But that also applies for the rest of the time, you know? I didn't even know you were back in the States.”

“I was going to surprise you,” Eames lies.

“That a fact?” With a raised eyebrow, Phil looks from him to Arthur. “With him? Huh. I hope he knows some card tricks once he's awake.” But despite his sarcasm, he's already sitting down on the edge of the mattress, opening his bag to take out some gloves. The good thing about Phil is that even though he's a stickler, he's not overly interested in other people and isn't prone to prying. Being a doctor is just a job to him because it's something he happens to be good at. He doesn't care for the patients' stories, only filters out the information relevant to their treatment. Which makes it safe to have him here, Eames thinks. They're very different, Phil and he, which is probably also due to the fact that they're strictly speaking half-brothers and didn't even grow up on the same continent for most of the time. It's a miracle that they're on reasonably good terms at all. But then, Phil doesn't know what it is exactly that Eames is doing for a living.

“I could use your help,” he now says quietly without turning around, concentrating on examining Arthur. Eames, kicking himself out of his musings, thinks that he's probably made the right decision.

An hour later, he knows for certain that he's made the right decision, even though he could barely dissuade Phil from taking Arthur to the hospital.

“Fine. But he's entirely your responsibility,” Phil eventually said, giving Eames a stern look which uncannily reminded the latter of their dad. “You'll need to keep checking his vitals to make sure he's alright because I can't rule out a concussion or other traumata. If there are any seizures or anything which doesn't count as a mere symptom, you do take him to the ER, understood? Same thing in case he complains about abdominal pain.”

Eames nods tamely. “I'll be careful,” he says, managing not to sound as annoyed as he is right now.

“Okay.” Phil hands him a slip of paper: “I've given him a pain reliever intravenously, but you'll need to get these; he'll want them when he wakes up. Make sure he eats something, since he shouldn't take them on an empty stomach.”

“Can you stay for another ten minutes while I pop out to the pharmacy, then?” Eames asks.

Phil sighs long-sufferingly, but nods. “Boy, do I look forward to my Christmas gift this year,” he mutters.

 

During the next few hours, Arthur barely stirs. Eames didn't think it'd be so disconcerting to just wait for someone to wake up, but that's what he does, even though he knows that Arthur's probably better off asleep for the time being. After taking care of the head injury, Phil had sutured the wound on Arthur's arm:“Looks like a knife wound,” he said, “luckily for your friend here, it's not so deep as to do serious damage.”

To Eames, it looked bad enough. As did Arthur's back, which was heavily bruised. At least there was no blood, but when Phil palpated Arthur's ribs near the spine where a particularly large bruise was forming, Arthur winced even in his unconscious state, making a mewling sound which went straight into Eames' heart. “These two are probably fractured, at least partially,” Phil said. “Bound to hurt like hell.”

They haven't found any other major injuries, only a lot of bruises, just as Arthur had said, one also forming underneath his left eye.

Eames is tired now, but he wouldn't dream of lying down and taking a nap. His gaze roams over the man in his bed and he shakes his head: this is where he actually wants Arthur, has been wanting him for a long time now. He wants Arthur with an intensity that is almost physically painful, but not like this, of course. And not only because he needed somewhere to crash, somewhere he knew he'd get help. He wants Arthur to want him, which seems unlikely to ever happen, and the notion that Arthur, once he's recovered from this, will never again be in Eames' bed, is unbearable. Eames wants to kiss Arthur until they're blue in the face, wants to cherish him, show him how much he is loved by the silly English guy in the Paisley shirts. Because that's what he probably is to Arthur, mad and badly dressed, when all he wants to be is incomparable and indispensable.

Well. At least Arthur seems to trust him, and Eames is surprised that the Point Man even knows his New York address. He also must have known about Eames' current whereabouts, coming to think of that. Interesting. Eames decides to file this one away for later. He wishes he knew what happened, who did this to Arthur. Who looks far too young, too frail, too unlike the sleeping Arthur Eames has gotten to know. It's disturbing to see him like this, all still and defenceless.

Unthinkingly, Eames reaches for Arthur's hand, pretending to be checking his pulse, then doesn't let go again afterwards.

 

Arthur wakes up slowly. He's blissfully unaware of the circumstances at first, but as he gradually makes his way to the surface, opening his eyes in the process, he registers several things at once, such as the various pains and aches in his body, the bandage around his arm, the fact that he's in an unknown bed. For a second, he thinks he might be dreaming, but even though his mind is uncomfortably sluggish, he quickly reconsiders. If this were a dream, he'd not be lying in a bed after getting injured. He wants to check his totem nevertheless, but as soon as he moves, there's pain, spreading out from his back with vicious intensity. He gasps, unable to stop his eyes from watering.

“Easy there, darling,” a familiar voice says, not as airily as one might have anticipated, but the man who now appears in Arthur's line of vision is unmistakably Eames. He looks unshaven and red-eyed but smiles: “Welcome back. You had me worry for a while, if I'm completely honest.”

Arthur, who's still busy trying to get his breathing under control because every single movement of his lungs causes further agony, hinting at cracked ribs, now recalls what has happened and why he's here. And that this very definitely can't be a dream, totem or not. Whenever he hasn't been working for some time, he barely needs it anyway; it's a matter of perspective, after all.

“Sorry,” he manages, blinking.

“It's all right,” Eames says lightly, trying to put him at ease, “Lately, life was too boring anyway.” He doesn't expect Arthur to smile at that, but he does, if ever so briefly. He's still tense from the pain, and now he looks embarrassed: “I need the bathroom,” he mutters hoarsely because his bladder makes itself known. “Help me get up?”

They fail miserably at the first attempt. Arthur turns white even before he's remotely upright and once more needs a few minutes to will the pain away.

Eames shakes his head: “You need to turn onto your side and roll over,” he muses, “that way, you'll be able to get to your feet without putting so much pressure on your torso.”

Arthur isn't sure if he can stand at all, but it seems a logical solution. It's slow-going when he does as Eames suggested. The pain is bearable, but his legs indeed feel like jelly as he gingerly tries to straighten up. Immediately, he feels so dizzy that he begins to sway, but then there's Eames, a solid figure to hold on to. Which Arthur does with his good hand; in fact, he holds on to Eames for dear life because he doesn't fancy falling and making all of this even worse.

“Got you, darling,” Eames mutters, carefully supporting Arthur. Who for a moment only concentrates on breathing calmly. He's grateful to have someone to more or less lean against, and it's good that it's Eames, who's warm and whose scent for some reason is tremendously comforting. Arthur barely remembers how he got here, but even then, Eames' sheer presence did a lot to reassure him. He's always so composed, this Eames, so confident, as if nothing can go wrong because he doesn't want it to. He smells nice, too.

“Okay?” Eames asks now, gently, and his voice reverberates through his chest. When did Arthur rest his head against Eames' sternum? He blinks. “Yeah...”

Slowly, Eames walks Arthur to the bathroom. It's working much better than the first time they tried this, but Arthur is soon beginning to tremble and Eames is relieved once they've reached their destination.

“I'm all for letting you keep your dignity, love,” he says, “but I'll hover near by, just in case.”

The fact that Arthur doesn't even try to glare at him doesn't bode too well, so Eames waits in the hall, picking up the various take-away leaflets which over time have culminated on the small table next to the door. He's not quite done making two piles- worth keeping and to be thrown out- when the bathroom door opens again. Arthur leans against the door jamb and tries to make it look casual, but he can't fool anyone just now, he looks like death warmed over.

“Eames? What am I wearing?” he asks on their way back, which would be considered as something of a stupid question on a normal day but which in this case is probably part of processing what's happening.

“Those are your own knickers, in case you're suspecting me of anything,” Eames deadpans. “Rest assured that I didn't grope you. I didn't even look, though to be honest I was tempted to do a little compare and contrast.”

“The t-shirt,” Arthur elaborates in a long-suffering tone which has nothing to do with his current physical ailments.

“That's my favourite, darling,” Eames replies, “you should be honoured. I wouldn't give this to just anyone who nearly fainted on my doorstep.”

“It says _save a horse, ride a cowboy_.”

“Hmm,” Eames smiles dreamily, “Nashville. That was one hell of a rodeo.”

Arthur sighs, but there is also the merest hint of a dimple, meaning he is amused against his will. Eames still grins as he eases him onto the bed. “Don't lie down just yet,” he says, “because I've got some lovely painkillers for you, but you should also eat and drink something.”

With a series of slow movements, Arthur maneuvers himself into a sitting position that allows him to lean back agains the headboard, which is definitely better than sitting up unsupported. Painkillers will be more than welcome, since not only his ribs are aching rather fiercely. Apart from a continuous, lingering pain in his head, his arm is throbbing and the skin around the wound on his head feels too taut. _Surreal_ , he thinks, considering how it came to this, but then tries not to pursue this line of thoughts; it's almost hurting as much as his injuries. He closes his eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen. He doesn't feel like eating, but when Eames comes back in with a tray that smells like toast, he realizes that he is hungry after all. When did he last eat? He can't remember. Eames however, true Brit that he is, makes some really good tea. He orders the blend from Harrods by the pound and takes it everywhere he travels. It's the one thing he really can't go without, and Arthur thinks it's lovely somehow. It's something he wouldn't in a million years have expected from the guy.

“Where did you get these?” he asks when Eames hands him the pills and a glass of water. Of course he's noticed that the package is brand-new.

“You're probably not going to like what I'm about to tell you,” Eames replies and has the decency to look at least a little sheepish. “But since I, while I'm blessed with a multitude of great skills if I do say so myself, am not a doctor, I felt it necessary to call in reinforcements. You know, to make sure you didn't die on me in your sleep and so forth. Therefore I asked my brother to drop by. He's a surgeon.”

Arthur's expression is inscrutable. “Fine,” he eventually mutters. “Thank you.”

“Fine?” Eames echoes, stupidly, because he's not sure he can believe his ears. “Did you just say _fine_?”

Arthur looks at him resignedly: “I rather forced the situation on you after all, didn't I?”

Eames sits down on the mattress, trying not to shake it too much: “No forcing of any kind, darling,” he says softly. “We're partners in crime, therefore we're also partners in everything else if need be. I'm glad you came to me.”

Arthur's smile is feeble. He doesn't like to let his guard down, and it took him a long time to actually trust Eames, become friends with him. The tougher the exterior, the softer the interior, Eames muses. Arthur is a serious person and Eames liked to think of him as boring and presumptuous in the early stages of their acquaintance, but he's since learned a thing or two about the guy. He's serious, yes, but not unfeeling at all, and when he smiles, really smiles, he's downright delectable. Well, at least in Eames' humble opinion. As he regards him now, he wishes he could touch Arthur, not like he touched him just minutes earlier out of necessity but the way lovers touch each other, tenderly and without any inhibitions.

Arthur's gaze lingers on Eames' face, but he looks depleted.

“You should get some rest,” Eames says. “I'll be here if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Arthur mutters. It takes some considerable effort to lie down, but he can already feel the medication kicking in, taking the edge off things and making him drowsy. “I didn't even know you had a brother,” he tells Eames, closing his eyes.

“Go to sleep, Arthur,” Eames says gently.

 

 

Eames resumes his position on the sofa, keeping an ear out in case Arthur needs him. He still doesn't know what has happened to his friend, and his injuries did not prove to be conclusive. He'll have to wait until Arthur's recovered enough to talk about it. Of course, Eames has meanwhile snooped through the messenger bag which lay forgotten in the hall; Arthur's wallet, his phone and whatnots are all there, strangely enough. As is his totem, which Eames has put on the nightstand so it's in Arthur's reach. He even made an effort not to touch it, but used a pair of salad tongs to carry it. The lengths he's going to... With a sigh, Eames closes his eyes. It was strange to help Phil undress Arthur, who was completely unaware of what was going on. He felt too insubstantial, too unarthurish in Eames' arms earlier, therefore Eames would like nothing better than to go back into the bedroom and lie down next to the other, hold him close, count his every heartbeat to ensure he's all right. It's tremendously disconcerting to see Arthur this vulnerable. Who usually doesn't allow himself any weaknesses during their jobs; his poise and self-assuredness suggest that he's unassailable. For a long time, that held true in their waking reality, but sometimes, Arthur's too professional for his own good. Eames vividly remembers how, during a lengthy preparation for a rather complicated extraction in Oslo, he found Arthur poring over details one night long after everyone else had left the warehouse they had chosen as their base. Since it was unheated and winter had already set in by then, Arthur was freezing, huddling into his coat but refusing to budge simply because of that. Therefore Eames had gone back to his hotel, nicked a warm blanket from his room and wordlessly wrapped his stubborn colleague into it. Arthur had only nodded his thanks and not once mentioned it afterwards, but Eames never got the blanket back.

And of course, he's seen Arthur injured before, but only ever in a dream, which isn't particularly unsettling when you know that everything will be fine once you've woken up.

 

Arthur blinks. He was dreaming just now, but even though there are echoes of words, he can't recall what it was about. He feels warm and comfortable, but he's not at home. _Eames_ , he thinks before he knows the where and why and with whom, and with the name immediately comes a sense of safety, even though his body manages to convey to him how battered he is, reminding him that things are not at all well. He just lies still for a while, listening to the faint sounds he can hear from the street. The alarm clock on the nightstand tells Arthur that it's early afternoon. It's quiet in the apartment; maybe Eames has gone out, or is taking a nap.

Arthur's thoughts eventually stray back to the previous days though, and he can't help the worry which makes itself known now that he's rested a bit. Surreal, yes, but he nevertheless should have told Eames at once instead of wasting time like this. With gritted teeth, he gets himself off the bed and onto his feet. He feels uncomfortably spacy, probably courtesy of the pain medication, which is beginning to wear off again. As long as he breathes evenly however, the pain in his ribs is bearable.

Slowly, he walks- well, if he is honest, it's less walking and more moving-purposefully-in-a-certain-direction-and-using-whatever-momentum-can-be-gained – towards the hall. He needs to pause once he's reached the living room. Eames is indeed sleeping on the sofa, and Arthur hesitates. But Eames seems to have a sixth sense, or maybe he's already been awake, because he stirs and opens his eyes now, blinking a few times before he notices Arthur. Quickly, he sits up: “What's wrong, love?” he asks, voice rough from sleep. Something in Arthur's stomach flutters and he can't say whether it's from seeing Eames like this, a little bleary and sleep-soft, or from the notion that Eames can read him so easily that he immediately picked up on Arthur's distress.

“It's my father,” Arthur says in a rush, “he's the reason why I'm here.”

Eames shakes his head: “What?”

“My mother passed away last year.” Arthur's gaze drifts through the room without seeing anything, and he talks rapidly, if a little breathless. “My father and I... we weren't very close lately, but he wanted to clear out a few things and asked me to help him.” He pauses and swallows; he finds it difficult to bring these words out, but he has to. “He's suffering from dementia. It's still in the early stages and I hired a caretaker who's looking after him, she's a trained nurse. He was doing quite alright so far. But yesterday, it got out of hand. I was moving a few cardboard boxes from the attic to the garage and he thought I was a burglar, stealing from him.” He pauses in order to catch his breath; he doesn't at all look recovered enough to talk about this.

Eames, who's gotten to his feet in the meantime, cautiously takes Arthur's good arm to support him because he's in fact swaying on his feet by now: “He attacked you?” he asks quietly, understanding dawning in his tone.

“Yes.” Arthur's voice is as deep as it gets. “Went after me with a knife, then pushed me down the stairs.” He stops. Eames can feel that he's shaking a little.

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Eames' tone is gentle. “I take it you didn't have a choice but to leave.” Defending himself would after all have been impossible.

Arthur nods, his eyes full of sorrow; he's never been so vulnerable in Eames presence. “He didn't do it on purpose,” he replies, “he didn't mean... he'd never have harmed me.”

“But you're worrying about him.”

“I don't want him to get hurt.” He takes a deep breath, wincing a little: “I need you to drive me there, Eames. I have to make sure he's okay.”

Eames studies him for a moment, calm and composed as usual: “You shouldn't even be up,” he says gently. “Do you really want him to see you like this when you don't even have a plausible explanation for it?”

Arthur sags a little; he hadn't thought of that. “No,” he murmurs, feeling stupid,“I don't.”

Eames looks at him with a fond expression: “Why don't we call the caretaker to find out how he's doing?”

At that, Arthur feels even more stupid: “Right.” He grimaces: “I'm not usually so dense,” he adds, feeling that it's important to stress this point.

Eames can't hide the smile that wants out: “I know, love.” He carefully reinforces his grip on Arthur's arm and begins to walk him back to the bedroom because he looks as though he might keel over at any given moment.

Arthur's phone log doesn't show any missed calls from the caretaker named Clare, which seems a relief: “She probably would have informed you straight away if anything unusual had happened, wouldn't she?” Eames says.

But Arthur is still agitated and only calms down after he's talked to her. Eames, who stays in the room during the call, wonders which Arthur Clare has met so far, because he sounds nothing like the self-assured, offish persona most people get to know as Arthur. He sounds impossibly young and can't subdue the concern in his tone, and Eames doesn't think that it's due to the medication. This is Arthur the son, thrown into a situation he can't control. However estranged his father and he may be, he still can't but be anxious, which is lovely on so many levels in Eames' opinion.

Clare manages to reassure Arthur, despite being rather surprised by this turn of events, and promises to take his dad to the doctor he's been seeing, to have a few tests made.

“I should be doing that,” Arthur says once he's rung off and told Eames what the caretaker said. “Instead of being absent all the time.”

Eames regards him, shaking his head: “Maybe he doesn't even want it to be you,” he points out. “It might be easier for him if it's a stranger.”

Arthur looks at the phone in his hand: “Maybe,” he repeats, his voice trailing off.

It's rather bitter how families don't work sometimes, Eames thinks. How things fall apart and can't really be mended if the damage is too profound, and how, even though it breaks one's heart, even events of overriding importance won't remedy whichever underlying problems are still lingering. Silently, Eames puts his hand on Arthur's back both for moral and physical support, careful to avoid the damaged ribs. He thinks he can feel the other leaning into the touch ever so slightly, but maybe that's just wishful thinking.

“I'll gladly take you there once you're recovered enough,” Eames offers. “Which is also a rather unsubtle way of saying you're looking quite dreadful now.”

Arthur hands Eames his phone: “We never actually understood each other once I had grown up,” he says quietly and Eames can hear that it's becoming an effort to speak.

“Doesn't mean he doesn't love you,” Eames states. “And vice versa.”

Arthur remains silent. Rather laboriously, he lies down again because he feels absolutely knackered now.

After a moment's hesitation, Eames sits down on the mattress: “The next time you'll see him, talk to him,” he says quietly. “Ask him what he'd prefer, as long as he can still voice his true opinion.”

Arthur considers this. The notion that his father's state of mind is going to deteriorate until he's not even capable of making his own decisions anymore has been weighing rather heavily on him for some time now, but he's been pushing it away, thinking they still had time. But now that it's becoming transparent how wrong he has been, he feels too young to be dealing with this on his own, too incompetent. He's the son, he shouldn't have to reverse the roles. And yet. He'll have to come to terms with the fact that his father is going to change, that the safety he felt during his childhood is irrevocably gone now. Neither of them knows what is going to happen, and how, and when.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he says softly. “Being a kid, not having to worry about much.”

Eames nods, though he doesn't really miss much about most of his own childhood; his mother's unhappiness played a large part throughout it, and it wasn't before he was grown up enough to find his own footing that he realized how difficult it could be to make one's own decisions. Not everyone had their path clearly laid out before them, after all. Not everyone fitted in so easily.

“I worried,” he replies, equally soft. “My mum isn't the strongest of people, and since my dad left us when I was four, I pretty much had to step in as soon as I was old enough.”

Arthur watches him from under half-closed lids: “Meaning you weren't old enough at all.”

Eames shrugs, at the same time nodding: “No,” he concedes. “Probably not.”

Arthur gives a soft hum; there isn't really anything to say to that. With a small sigh, he closes his eyes. Eames stays with him a while longer, listerning to his breathing and wishing he could lie down next to him. Before he leaves the room, he gently caresses Arthur's temple once, twice, not noticing that Arthur isn't yet asleep.

 

The first time Eames sees Arthur naked is only three days later. Sadly, the reason isn't a romantic one but Arthur's craving for a shower. Phil, who dropped by on the previous evening, said it was okay as long as he kept the injured arm dry and used only mild soap, sparing the area around the headwound. The only remaining problem is that lifting the good arm causes too much pain in the ribs, therefore Arthur needs help with washing his hair. Eames thinks that he's still a little too tottery to be left alone in the shower anyway, though he knows better than to say this out loud.

“I promise I won't look”, he tells Arthur while he puts a plastic bag around the bandaged arm, skilfully ignoring how Arthur rolls his eyes at that. Eames actually doesn't feel as elated as his tone suggests however; this whole affair is not at all how he'd have wanted things to develop, back while he was still fantasizing about wooing Arthur in an old-fashioned way, like they used to do when men still wore fedoras and Audrey Hepburn was still having breakfast at Tiffany's. Eventually, there was going to be sex of course, but Eames likes the notion of actually courting someone, of setting things in motion until they're slowly and inevitably snowballing into something complicated, intricate, delightful.

Not that he minds helping Arthur, on the contrary, but he can't subdue the worry that Arthur won't even consider someone who's literally seen him flat on his back like this. He'll probably be off for good as soon as he can manage, and Eames dreads that moment. Dreads that their relationship, however it may currently be defined, will be reduced to nothingness, or even worse, an occasional Christmas card. Arthur hates his own helplessness, therefore he must be less than thrilled that he can't even wash his own hair; Eames doesn't see how they'll get through this unscathed.

Surprisingly, it's not as awkward as Eames anticipated. Arthur steps into the shower cubicle and turns on the spray, apparently entirely at ease with being naked. In fact, despite moving slowly and being covered in bruises which are in full bloom by now, he could be wearing a suit. Eames, against his will amused, shakes his head at so much nonchalance.

When Arthur is sufficiently wet, he turns off the spray again and hands Eames the shampoo. The latter's determined to keep himself under control, but truth be told, it's bloody difficult. For one, this is Arthur, bare and willingly giving himself over into Eames' care once more, and secondly, he's even lovelier when he's all wet.

Once, in dreamscape, their car ended up in a river during an extraction that had gone spectacularly wrong, so Eames has seen Arthur like this before. Only now he's in Eames' bathroom, and unlike the last time, he's calm and composed instead of furious and slightly panicked. Coming to think of it, it was the only time Eames has ever seen Arthur lose his countenance. It was the first time however that he's seen Arthur with his hair plastered to his skin, making his ears stick out even more and his eyes huge. Gone was Arthur the businessman; all Eames could see for a moment was innocence, something soft and delicate. That is, until Arthur opened his mouth to speak. But it's back now, Eames can already see it in the curve of Arthur's neck; it looks frail to him, in need of protection, and at the same time as though it should be covered in kisses. Eames bets that Arthur's very sensitive and probably makes all kind of lovely noises. Sighing, Eames can barely stop his hands from going rogue and roaming all over that delicious-looking skin. Instead, because he's decent and doesn't want to take advantage, he keeps to his task. A few times, he does notice a subtle shiver running down Arthur's spine, which does a lot to make concentrating on Arthur's head even more difficult.

 

Once they're done, Eames hands Arthur a large towel, then leaves the bathroom, willing his erection away with a vengeance and gritted teeth; it wouldn't do if Arthur caught him wanking just now.

Arthur for his part is glad Eames didn't see his own arousal. It wasn't the head massage per se that did it for him but rather the fact that it was Eames, whose hands Arthur would have liked all over his body even now, battered as he is. Shivering from the sheer imagination, he continues to dry himself off as best as he can with only one hand, trying to think of something different.

It takes some effort to get dressed; by the time he's pulled the fresh shirt Eames provided (“Frankie Say RELAX”) over his head, he's nearly panting from pain, which only makes it worse. Shaking, he supports himself on the wall for a moment, but it's no good. When Eames, who has changed the sheets on the bed in the meantime, goes to check on Arthur ten minutes later, he's sitting on the closed toilet lid still quite white-faced and trembling, his hair dripping on the t-shirt.

Eames takes a smaller towel: “Allow me?” Carefully, he wraps it around Arthur's head, then he squats down in front of him: “You okay, darling?”

Arthur nods: “Just needed a minute,” he says, a bit strained. He should be embarrassed about this, but strangely, he isn't. There's kindness instead of mockery in Eames' expression, and coming to think about it, Eames has been nothing but kind and helpful the whole time (if one didn't count his choice of t-shirts for Arthur, which seems to amuse him to no end). Arthur didn't once feel like an inconvenience, even though he must be and not only because he's the reason Eames is currently sleeping on the couch- he overheard him on the phone the other day, it sounded like he was cancelling an appointment. He didn't mention it afterwards, and since he seemed entirely at ease, neither did Arthur. Who knows Eames well enough to tell when he's only pretending to be unperturbed, therefore all seemed okay.

Arthur now looks at Eames in resignation: “I hate this.”

“I know.” Eames smiles, managing to look unreadable at the same time; his intense gaze makes Arthur's stomach flutter and his head swim. The feeling – entirely Eames- related every time- has become familiar by now, but it still manages to throw him off kilter whenever it happens.

When Eames helps him to his feet a moment later, the moment is gone, but he supports him all the way to the bedroom because Arthur still looks peaky. With what might count as routine by now, Arthur lowers himself onto the mattress, but he doesn't let go of Eames' hand afterwards. Now Eames' stomach begins to do funny things as Arthur unmistakably tugs him closer until he sits down as well.

Eames feels a little stunned by this unexpected development, therefore he waits. All the satirical comments he'd usually have at the ready in such a situation are dying on his tongue because Arthur's hand in his feels just right. It is smaller than his own, slender. Strong, too. And just right, and no one forced Arthur to do this, right? So maybe Eames' worries have been entirely unfounded.

“Thank you,” Arthur says quietly, and for a moment, Eames' heart sinks. Has he misread the situation? But Arthur isn't done yet.

“I didn't only come to you because you were close by,” he continues, looking at a fixed point somewhere on the floor. Eames thinks he feels a slight tremor in Arthur's hand, or maybe it's his own.

“I thought of you all the time since we last met.” Arthur's voice is soft, but it still sets Eames' nerves on fire. The last time they met was in Tokyo, seven months ago. Eames smiles absently; is it really seven months already? The job was fair to middling, more of a favour for Saito, but he remembers all things Arthur, of course; he always does. Who'd have thought that Arthur'd stoop to participate in a round of Karaoke with the rest of their team, and that he'd have such a lovely singing voice?

Unconsciously, he squeezes Arthur's hand before shaking himself out of it: “Good,” he says, because his witty comebacks aren't always as reliable as he'd like, and also, this requires something more serious. He mentally kicks himself before turning towards Arthur, who hesitates before meeting Eames' gaze. He looks calm but he's definitely trembling now.

“Good?” he echoes, sounding more like his usual self. “Care to elaborate?”

Eames laughs; he's feeling a little shaky himself now. “I know you consider me a rapscallion-”

“A what?”

“A scoundrel.”

“Ah. Continue?”

“And I probably am. Well, was. I'm trying to keep to the more respectable jobs and I've sold my digs in Mombasa because frankly, my gambling was becoming more of an addiction than a habit recently.”

“Mombasa isn't the only place where you can gamble,” Arthur points out, since it's all a little surreal anyway and he doesn't quite know where the conversation is headed.

“It's the only place where it's fun,” Eames replies with finality, and when said like that, it probably makes sense. “And I know you hate the way I dress.”

“Well, _hate_ is probably too strong a term. In all fairness, if anyone can pull it off, it's you.”

“Huh. Really? I didn't expect that. Wow.” He shakes his head: “Anyway- what I'm trying to say is that...” He swears under his breath a few times. “How do I bloody put it- ditto.”

Arthur bursts into laughter and immediately gasps from the pain his ribs are inflicting on him.

“Shit- sorry, love, now stop laughing- seriously, I didn't mean to be funny.”

It takes a few minutes for Arthur to regain his composure, and all the while, they keep holding hands.

“It's mutual, then?” he asks once he's got his breath back, just to be sure. “It's not only me?”

Eames shakes his head: “Can't honestly deny it, darling.”

 

Dazed with the implications of this new knowledge, they sit in silence for a while.

“Eames,” Arthur eventually says. “Will you go out on a date with me? Once I'm better, I mean?”

Smiling, Eames regards his face: “Yes, I'd very much like that.” He leans closer: “Is it going to hurt if I kiss you?”

“Depends. You don't intend to bite me, do you?”

This time, it's Eames who rolls his eyes, but then he kisses Arthur, and for the next few, blissful minutes, their world consists of the two of them only.

When they eventually pull apart, Arthur has gone a bit pale, despite being all smiles.

Eames helps him to lie back against the headboard, and this time, he can actually spread out next to him, which is marvellous. He really hopes he's not just dreaming all this.

"Just for the record- I don't think you're a scoundrel," Arthurs mutters into Eames' hair. "You've been brilliant on every job so far and you've been brilliant these past days."

"So you did like my attempts at cooking?"

"Yeah."

"There's something else I'm especially good at. You just wait, darling."

"Tease..."

"Yeah...,” Eames mutters."It's too bad that we have to wait." Secretly, he's pleased though; this way, he'll actually have enough time to woo Arthur properly. Maybe he'll even buy a fedora.

“Hmm. But I don't want to be hindered by any physical limitations,” Arthur replies, and the way he says it gives Eames all manners of goosebumps.

“I really don't know _how_ I'm supposed to wait that long.”

“Eames,” Arthur says.

“Yes, darling?”

“Just look at my t-shirt.”

 

 

 

The End

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. English isn't my native language, sorry if I overlooked some mistakes.
> 
> #stopyulinforever  
> #wecanstopyulin


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